The Capacity to Feel
by JessicaFay
Summary: Clato oneshot, mostly about Clove's death. Can also be considered a Cato character study. For Project Pull. T for language.


Cato Hadley does not feel things.

Granted, he does feel physical stuff. He can tell when something is hot and when something is cold, and he can tell when something is rough and when something is smooth. He feels pain when one of his training partners whacks him with a sword; he feels relief when he puts ice on the wound. Yes, his hands, his skins, his whole body, can feel things just fine.

But he never _truly_ feels things. He doesn't really know what it means to be happy, and he's never been sad. Pity is also something he's never experienced; slicing off somebody's hand is, for him, just as casual as eating lunch or watching tv. And Cato's positive that he's never used his heart, he's never loved anybody or cherished anybody or opened up to anybody, never cared about someone besides himself.

And Cato is convinced that things are better this way; his parents remind him on a daily basis that emotions just get in the way of things. Cato fully agrees; emotions seem like a pretty big pain-in-the-ass, at least from what he's seen from watching television—specifically reruns of past Hunger Games. What he's seen is people getting all scrunchy-faced and crying, he's seen people falling to their knees and screaming "Wake up!" at children who are clearly already dead. Why would he ever want to be like that? Emotions and feelings and all that bullshit just ruin everything, Cato has decided.

So by the time Clove Kentwell enters into Cato's life, when they've both just turned ten years old, Cato is literally incapable of really truly _liking_ her. Sure, he certainly develops something of a fondness for her, but he does not love her or open up to her or cherish her or anything like that. She is not his friend but rather his ally, a training partner he can always depend on to be up to his caliber.

And as years go by, his fondness for Clove Kentwell grows, but not so far that she has become a soft spot or a weakness or anything involving emotions. She is still just his ally, who he also happens to enjoy talking and joking around and spending time with. She is not his companion or his friend or his lover, and even if Cato had any desire for her to become those things, she never would. Cato has never developed the ability to have emotions or to see other people as anything besides living weapons; he has absolutely no capacity to feel things, and that's simply how it is. And because Clove is the exact same way, they are able to practice together and fight together and hang out together everyday without any feelings or emotions or any bullshit like that ever getting in the way.

So when he's seventeen, and he's in the arena of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, and he's watching Clove's dead body fall to the ground, he isn't exactly sure why he suddenly feels like his world is falling apart. Cato isn't supposed to feel things, isn't supposed to give a damn when other people die, isn't supposed to want to save anyone.

But then _why_ is suddenly calling Clove's name and running toward the Cornucopia and kneeling beside her? Why is he crying and shaking and calling her name? He remembers all those videos he used to watch when he was younger, of tributes sobbing over the deaths of their friends. He'd promised himself he was never going to become like that.

So what the hell is going on?

Cato tells himself to get a grip, to stop crying and remember what he's here for. Only feel what's real, he tells himself, only feel what's real and stop with all the emotions.

He asks himself what feels hot, what feels cold, what feels rough, what feels smooth. But everything just makes him think of Clove: the heat of her hands during combat practice, the coldness of the knives she was so good at throwing, the roughness of her arena jacket as he reaches down to readjust it, the smoothness of her skin as he wipes a strand of her back from her face.

He starts to cry again, and as a hovercraft comes to lift Clove's body into the air, all he can do is tear at his hair in frustration and futilely throw stones at the departing vehicle.

And a few minutes later, Cato is exhausted and out of tears and more drained than he has ever been in his entire life. Not concerned with other tributes finding him, he collapses to the ground and puts his head into his hands.

And he tries to figure out when everything changed.

Cato has never felt things. He has never loved his parents, has never loved his siblings, has never loved any of his classmates at the training academy. And he knows that if any of them were to die, he would not cry. He would do what he's been trained to and fucking _forget_ them.

So what makes Clove any different, Cato asks.

And looking back, he suddenly hates himself. All the times they stayed late at the academy to practice together, all the times they watched Capitol movies together, all the times he chose to be with her when he could have been alone, convincing himself that she was merely an ally—that's what made him fall in love with her.

Cato had allowed himself to love her, to cherish her, to open up to her. He had given _himself_ the capacity to feel, rebelled against the way his parents raised him, and he hadn't realized it until now, when the one person he had ever truly _felt_ for, was dead.

Cato wonders if maybe, subconsciously, he knew what he was doing when he spent all that time with Clove, if he subconsciously knew that he was making himself fall in love with her.

Maybe it's part of human nature to want to feel, want to love, want to have somebody who could love you back. But now Cato won't even know if Clove loved him back anyway.

Slowly, Cato stands up, now with the overwhelming knowledge that he is more vulnerable than he had thought for all those years.

Cato Hadley is capable of loving somebody. Cato Hadley _did _love somebody. And that's the most terrifying sensation that he's ever known.


End file.
